


Aftermath

by elem (elem44)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-28 23:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10841682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elem44/pseuds/elem
Summary: Chakotay’s reaction to Joe Carey’s death. Episode addition to ‘Friendship One’.Written for Talsi74656's Prixin Prompt Comp.Prompt 10“I’m fine.”“You’re always fine. Just - for once give me a real answer!”





	Aftermath

*******************************************

I step into the corridor and the door hisses shut behind me, the sound eerily loud in the quiet. It brings with it a wave of unassailed grief.  

I’m weighed down by it: the oppressive burden of it so heavy that I can barely move – my feet feel welded to the deck. What I dearly want to do is turn and re-enter Carey’s quarters but I can’t.

She wanted me to leave, although she’d said nothing but her actions spoke volumes.  

So, I left her there; sad, alone and immersed in a swirling eddy of guilt-laden silence.

An overwhelming sense of shame scrapes at my heart with dull blades; the air laden with anguish, thick enough to chew.

I don’t want to leave her, I’d give anything to stay and soothe her ache of loss, but the emptiness inside me is too cold and too pervasive. I’m no help to anyone, least of all, Kathryn.

I am bereft.

Besides, there was little point in staying.

I’d run out of things to say, and I know she’d exhausted her quota of philosophical banter - both of us dancing around the real issues yet again, just as we’ve always done.

She wouldn’t have listened anyway. We’d bandied the usual platitudes as though we were strangers and not soul-deep wounded compatriots in this fractious game of life and death.

I’d asked the age-old question.

_‘Was she all right?’_

Her answer was the same as always.

_“I’m fine.”_

My fingers had curled into fists of frustration, but instead railing at her as I’d wanted to do, my heart screaming at her in accusation, _‘You’re always fine. For once, just give me a real answer.’_ I’d merely nodded my acceptance and bitten back the strident words.

I’d watched her, though, and categorised each subtle movement and nuance. Her attention was wholly focused on Joe’s ship-in-a-bottle, but I knew her mind was awash with inner recriminations and bitter condemnation. I know her too well, and her veneer of stoic composure barely concealed her self-loathing and the scorching banshee cry of self-accusation and remorse.

I carry my own demonic burdens; the harsh indictment of self-reproach almost drowning out the panicked thud of my own heartbeat.

In her unforgiving world of rigid standards and unattainable ideals, yet another crewman's life has been squandered on the bonfire of her failure.

Her quiet pretend-calm is yet another masterful evasion technique – she's written the book on those – but as well-practiced as I am at peeling back the layers to reveal the emotionally susceptible heart of Kathryn Janeway, this time, I can’t find it within myself to deal with her pain as well as my own – although, I know I should.

Her isolation and brittle disquiet rips my insides to shreds and I’m drowning in guilt.   

Our conversation had come to a desultory and unsatisfying end, and I knew she wanted me to leave – my presence another unwelcome reminder of the day’s tragic events. But I’d hesitated. I wanted to look into her eyes – I wanted her to acknowledge the connection between us - the one that has grounded us since the moment we met on Voyager's Bridge all those years ago. _We_ needed to re-forge that bond and remind ourselves of how vital it was to our everyday existence.

But her eyes remained stubbornly fixed on that palm-sized Voyager.

I accepted the rebuff – it hurt – but it was no more than I deserved. The gripping pain in my chest – the one that had begun on hearing the Doctor’s shattering declaration, _‘They’ve killed Lieutenant Carey!’_ – was testament to my guilt, and as I backed away from her, the ache began to expand outward until I could barely breathe.

Seeing her so stricken but resolute wrenches at the moorings of my heart, and although it undermines my already flimsy defences, I’ll bear the burden of her silence. Nothing I can say or do will rescue us from this morass of grief.

What I desperately wanted to do was comfort her – to haul her into my arms, and hold her, close enough that none of the sadness and guilt could squeeze through the gaps between us. But we don’t do that sort of thing – not now, not ever.

Today, we paid dearly for humanity’s ignorant mistake – yet another unforeseen disaster to add to a seemingly never-ending litany of disasters. This, our first 'legitimate' mission since we made regular contact with the Alpha Quadrant, had seen the senseless loss of yet another precious life.

How are we supposed to reconcile that?

A gaping chasm of self-blame and accusation stretches between us, and without the wherewithal to breach the void, I did the only thing I could.

I left her alone in Carey's quarters, and took my fear and rising panic with me.

<=>

The walk to my quarters is endless – the corridors yawn long and cold before me, the turbolift barely inching its way to its destination. The guilt I feel for leaving her stretches time and my nerves to the limit.

When I finally make it to my cabin door, my legs are shaking uncontrollably and I stumble through the opening, only to stagger to a halt in the centre of my living area.

Shattered to the core, I stare out my window at the star-studded blackness beyond.

What the hell am I going to do?

Carey is dead. Kind, gentle Joe has become another name on that long rollcall of losses. There have been too many over the past seven years and, as a result, our strength is wavering.

I can feel it, and I know she does, too.

Battle after battle, hull breaches, alien medical experiments, rogue Starfleet captains, hijackings and kidnappings, giant pitcher plants, organs removed, bodies infested and digested – how is one supposed to make sense of any of it?

The usual placating words ring hollow; besides, we've heard them all before.

How often can I say, ‘ _It’s not your fault’_ , _‘It’s the nature of the mission’_ or _‘It could have been worse’_?

How much worse can it get?! A man is dead - killed as a bargaining chip in a war that we didn’t even know we were fighting. That is right up there with _fucking_ 'worse’ in my book.

The rising tide of panic pounds at the inside of my chest, and although I’ve tried to minimize the damage by using logic and that old chestnut _‘circumstances beyond our control’_ , I fear it is too little, too late.

I am overwhelmed by grief for all the things I’ve done, more especially, for those that I haven't, and for my inability to relieve Kathryn of the staggering weight of guilt she carries.

<=>

In a token offering of appeasement, we restored Uxali’s atmosphere where Earth’s archaic technology had wreaked such havoc - as if that in any way compensates for the millions of lives lost or those who are forever maimed by humanity’s short-sightedness. It makes me wonder what other catastrophes we’ve left in our wake as we travel in blind abandon through these unknown stars. The responsibility weighs heavily upon my already overburdened heart. 

The thought carries me straight back to Kathryn. I know these same concerns prey on her mind, and it was this awareness that had prompted me to go in search of her after we'd left Uxal's orbit.

I’d found her where I’d expected her to be – sitting alone in Carey’s quarters. She barely acknowledged my arrival; her entire focus was directed at the tiny replica of Voyager’s nacelle - the final piece of Joe’s ship in a bottle.

The innocuousness and abject humanity of Carey's off-duty hobby threw the glaring light of injustice onto his death. For some reason, it made the whole situation so much more tragic.

I’d gone to her with the intention of offering comfort, and perhaps receiving some in return, but she barely glanced at me as I took the seat beside her.

It was eating me alive that Carey died on my watch. I’d failed to keep him safe, which, in turn, meant I’d failed Kathryn.

I knew she felt it – deeply – but her detachment and eerie aura of calm scared me.

However, my reasons for seeking her out scared me even more.

I'm well aware that in the guise of sympathizer, I’d gone there looking for forgiveness, and maybe a degree of redemption. However, my fear is that I’ve become so needy and weak that I now require her absolution before I can move on. The selfishness of my actions appals me; it is responsibility that she shouldn’t have to bear.

She’d already wrested the blame for the failure of the mission from my hands, convinced that her hard-line, non-negotiation policy had been the catalyst that brought about Joe’s death. She refused to be persuaded otherwise – still stubborn as hell. But it wasn’t her fault. Circumstances, as always, had left her no room to manoeuvre, and none of us could have predicted either the depth of Verin’s insanity or his hunger for revenge.

Kathryn had simply been following orders – orders that came directly from Starfleet – and she’d executed the mission precisely by the book. But perhaps _that_ was part of the problem. In the Delta Quadrant, her strict adherence to the rules of diplomacy had, at times, been more of a hindrance than a help. Especially, when – as it so often happened – she was the only one following those damned rules. 

She knows no other way, though, and those rules are the scaffolding of her strength, part of her very being. But I wish she’d let me help her. I’d gladly shoulder more of the burden of command, but she's obstinate and inflexible when it comes to her almighty Starfleet edicts and regulations. There has never been any room for compromise or concession. It is the wedge that was driven between us at the beginning of this journey, and it is still there, only the rift is widening, and I fear I am losing her.

None of this stops me from loving her though – from being in love with her – even if the unrequited nature of that love is slowly eroding my resilience. I’ve been aware for some time now that my emotional fortitude is at a worryingly low ebb, but I have no idea what to do about it, or how to drag myself out of this mire of emotional atrophy. But knowing this is no comfort and the self-indulgence of these thoughts dismays me.  

And now this.

The mission to retrieve the ancient Earth probe had been _my_ mission, _my_ responsibility, and I’d screwed up – screwed up big time – but I am still at a loss as to why or how it had happened.  I’ve gone over and over it in my mind, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when it all went to hell. Hostage situations are intrinsically volatile and unpredictable, but I can’t get the thought out of my head that if I’d changed tactics somehow, Joe might still be alive. If my timing had been different, if I’d gone with Tom instead of sending Joe, turned left instead of right, refused to go in the first place, maybe the outcome would have been different.

But how would we ever know!?

Fucking butterfly wings and hurricanes!

The capricious nature of it all is tearing me apart, but an answer – a reason – still eludes me. Maybe there isn’t one. Perhaps there is no rhyme or reason. Maybe it is just another case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Russian roulette, Fate, bad karma - who the hell knows? It could have been any one of us on the receiving end of that fatal phaser blast, and for a split-second, I almost wish it had been me. If it had, at least I wouldn’t have to feel this way.

But that thought is abhorrent - indulgent, childish and petulant - and I’m doubly ashamed of myself for having even considered it.

It demeans Joe Carey’s loss by the very thought of it, although, the reality of his death is killing me.

This must be how Kathryn feels much of the time – every death, every loss - a notch on her bones; a permanent and unrelenting agony – deep and visceral. It makes my heart ache to think of it – of her – and the solitary anguish she is forced to endure.

As hard as I try, I’ve never really understood it. I see the pain etched in the lines around her eyes and mouth, the encroaching darkness deep in the blue of her eyes, but I’ve always kept clear of the swirling eddy of her remorse.

Self-preservation has kept me at a safe distance from the scouring hurt and blood-pounding grief of loss. At the beginning of this journey, I took on the token mantle of ‘counsellor’, and dealt with the emotional load by expressing abstract sorrow in exact measures and administering empathy at precisely the right times. But so far, I’ve kept myself protected, aloof and consequently whole. It was about survival on an almost primal level, and I’ve convinced myself that I knew my limitations. I'm acutely aware that my deep-seated emotional wounds make me vulnerable. My basic argument has been that I would be of no use to anyone if I succumbed as well.

Excuses, excuses.

I'm a fucking coward!

Unlike Kathryn, I am just not willing to risk it all, and as a result, I find myself living half a life, a muted excuse for an existence.

I'm so ashamed of myself - humbled and ashamed.

It isn’t as though death holds any great mystery for me; I am certainly no stranger to it and its aftermath. I’ve lost team members before, friends, comrades, family - people I’ve loved - and I’ve grieved for them all, missed them, and wished, with my whole heart, that they were still alive.  I’ve even used the tragedy of my own family’s loss to fuel my anger and drive my need for revenge, but the losses have made me wary and, over time, I created my own barriers and walls.

For some reason, this one death has become the touchstone, or more accurately, the touchpaper of my emotional destruction – my magnum opus of loss – and I can feel myself free falling into the abyss. 

I mentally claw at imaginary handholds, unable to find purchase, as the knot in my gut pulls tighter and panic sets in. I curl into myself, fists pressed deep into my middle, cutting off my breath and my precarious hold on consciousness.

Grief and fear are swallowing me whole.

It takes all my concentration to steady my breathing. I suck in one small breath at a time, until the greying edges recede from my vision and my thoughts begin to calm.

My reaction is out of step with the situation - I know this - but no matter how many times I tell myself so, it makes no difference. Panic is needling under my skin, its fist squeezing tighter and tighter around my heart.

I calm my breathing and think of Joe.

He was never a close friend, although, on a ship this size, our paths crossed many times. But ultimately it isn’t about me or Joe – it is about all those things he represented: family, wife, children – the simple stuff – all the normalities of life that we so desperately crave and that are so out of reach for us in this far flung corner of space.

And now, when we next contact home, we'll be lobbing a grenade of sorrow into the lives of these people – his wife, his boys, his parents – blowing their existence apart and shattering their dreams of a future. It’s a cruel and bitter legacy.

Husband, father, and son, gone - and for what? A chunk of ancient metal! There was no equating the two, and how do we go about explaining this glaring discrepancy to his wife and sons?

Something wrenches inside me.

_There is no ‘we.’_

There is only Kathryn. She’ll be the one to bear responsibility for his loss. She’ll be the one to speak to Carey’s family and shoulder the burden of their grief, and she’ll do it alone. The wrenching has become a long, searing tear and something has come adrift inside me; something vital is shifting and giving way, and I'm deathly afraid I might not be able to pull myself back together again.

Joe Carey’s death has brought everything to a head. Seven years of travel behind us marked by dozens of deaths; an unknown number of years of travel ahead – how many more would we lose? Would one of those deaths be mine?

_Would one of them be hers?!_

_Oh God!_

The mere thought sends a crippling wave of terror hurtling through me. My stomach roils – gorge rising – and my knees give way. I collapse onto the nearest chair in a crumpled heap, my head in my hands.

What the hell are we doing, and what in God's name is the point of it all?

Voyager – aimed like a bullet towards Earth, a miniscule dot on the galactic map, speeding through space, but never fast enough to avoid the dangers that lurk behind every planet, nebula and asteroid. And we sit here, trapped in our small encapsulated world, complacent and seemingly accepting of the dangers that surround us. But like Joe’s ship in a bottle, we are vulnerable, exposed, our existence as fragile as the glass that encases it.

There is no guarantee that we won’t be dead by tomorrow - for all I know, we might not see out the day - and I'm powerless to do anything about it.

We’ve had so many narrow escapes, survived annihilation by a hair’s breadth more times than I care to think about, and it scares the hell out of me that perhaps our time and good luck are running out. It suddenly all seems so stupid and futile.

I laugh but it is not a pleasant sound – the rabid whip-crack bark of it makes me jump. I try to push down the rising hysteria, and scrub at my face to erase the sting of tears. I can’t give in to them – I have no right to the indulgence. Instead, I clench my jaw and grip the seat cushion until my knuckles burn and my fingers turn white. The laughter has died, choked out of existence by an acrid lump in my throat, bristling with the glassy shards of too many unshed tears.

Panic is rising, but I don’t dare make a sound; if I do, I’ll start screaming and won’t be able to stop.

The magnitude of it all is overwhelming – the frailty of existence, the diaphanous spider web barrier between life and death hangs at every turn.

The imminence of death, and the fucking permanence of it, is sending me reeling towards the brink.

Death – the absence of life, of love, of touch, of heartbeats and heartache.

I close my eyes and try to shake off the suffocating cloud of dread, but all I can see is Kathryn in Carey’s place.

Her face pale, eyes empty, lips slack, no breath; a charred hole in the middle of her chest, the black spreading stain of her blood spilling out of her, dripping, sliding, sticky, metallic. Cold seeps in as the warmth leaches out – so icy and empty it rivals the blackness of space beyond my window. But it isn’t nearly as empty as my life would be if she were gone. I simply can’t bear the thought; it would end me.

My feet hit the floor and I am up and pacing – walking in jerky steps from one side of my quarters to the other before I come to a lurching stop in front of the viewport. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. I keep pressing until my eyes ache and I see sparks behind my eyelids, but as hard as I try, I can’t erase the vision of Kathryn’s death; it has burned itself onto my retinas and everywhere I look, it is all I can see.

I’ve held her lifeless body in my arms once before, and I carry that nightmare with me to this day. The soul-deep torment and helplessness I felt in those frantic moments are now suddenly amplified, snapped back into sharp focus, appearing far too real for my frenzied mind to deal with.

Past and present collide and I start to shake.

Oh God! I didn't see this coming. Does one ever see insanity creeping up on them? Because that’s what this is.  I am going mad – crazy as a loon. I can’t breathe. There isn’t enough air in the room – in the universe – and my heart is hammering so loudly that I am deaf to everything but its relentless pounding. But as hard and fast as it beats, my blood is going nowhere – it is stagnant – heavy as lead and it drops to my feet. My teeth chatter, my brow beads with cold sweat and again, my legs decide to give out on me – give up on me – give me up for dead.

With a gasp, I collapse into a chair and grip the arms tight, holding on in the grim hope that it will anchor me to the living world, but I am not sure that it will – or if I really want it to. The guillotine blade of Kathryn’s death hangs over me, a possibility upon which I am too terrified to dwell. To put it out there is to tempt the Fates, and neither of us is on good terms with that fickle master. 

I want this new world of hurt to end. I want to be as I was before, whole and ignorant, not filled with the certainty of razor-edged grief; cracked and brittle, ready to break into a million pieces at any moment. I need to centre myself and find that quiet place inside me that has been my sanctuary, my blissfully-unaware solace, but it is crowded now with ghosts and bones and flying things that I neither recognise nor understand.

Noise fills my head – cries, muffled, pleading, whispering – and the world around me fades, swallowed up by the muted clamour inside my head, and I am so afraid of what is to come.

I don’t want it to take me. I don’t want to leave Kathryn behind, but how can I stop it?  Rigid with fear, I squeeze my eyes shut and sit here, waiting for the madness to come. I brace for the swell, ready to be swept up in the maelstrom and tossed against the rocks of insanity where I’ll break into bits – crack open – all the soft mush of my insides spilling into the waves until I become nothing but a wash of flotsam and jetsam.

My thoughts are gibberish – I know – but I can’t shut them off. All my fears – real and imagined – are surging to the surface, all of them heaving, writhing and crowding each other as they spew forth, stripping away all reason and my fragile grip on reality. The only thing I can do is sit here and hope that, in the end, there will be enough of me left to carry on.

I have a vague notion of time passing, but no idea of how long I have been sitting here. The sweat on my brow has dried, and the skin across my forehead is now taut and strangely numb. It doesn’t feel like my skin but then again, the rest of me doesn’t feel like me either. I can’t move; I don’t dare – I feel if I try, I might literally fall to pieces – shatter into bits.

My eyes remain stubbornly shut and my straining muscles ache, but I am becoming inured to this new world inside my head, and decide that the longer I stay here, the better it is for all of us. Especially for Kathryn. At least in my head, she is safe – for now – and if she is safe, then we all just might survive.

Out of nowhere springs the devastating realisation that my life has become so inextricably entwined with hers that I don’t think I can survive without her. I am struck by an almost overwhelming urge to find her. To grab her, and run for the hills – to simply take off and run and run and never look back. But I can’t, I know that, though the urge to protect her is so powerful it leaves me breathless, frantic and filled with dread. 

Beads of sweat erupt again on my forehead, and I’m breathing in short panting gasps. How could I have been so unaware for so long? I thought I could control these feelings, relegate them to places untouched and unreachable. I thought I was so clever keeping it all so neatly locked away, but I was a fool – an arrogant, pathetic fool.

Does she know? Does she share even a sliver of these exquisite yearnings? They are all so tangled up in fear, pride, obsession, duty and a myriad of other bewildering emotions that I have no idea how to begin to understand them. Fear and death have become the norm – the stepping-stones of our existence – and I am sinking faster than I can find my footing. I can’t go on without some kind of balance in my life – light against the dark, love to counter the loss. I need something real, some sort of affirmation that we don’t merely exist, but that there is a reason for us being here.

But there are no answers to these questions, so I simply sit here and wait – for madness, for time to pass, for something to show me how to take just one more step forward.

<=>

The touch of warm hands.

It is my first conscious thought for what seems like hours.

Soft, gentle, warm hands.

They stroke my face – rest against my cheeks – and drift down my arms and over my hands, but I am so far inside my head that I'm not sure if they're real.

For now, I don't care. Their touch is soothing and peaceful, and I am content to just sink into the realm of their warmth.

Fantasy or not, the voice is Kathryn's; like honeyed brandy on a cold night, the rich caress of it soothes me. It catches my attention, calling my name, calling me home. It is the hook that drags me back, away from the dark chasm that beckons.

The physical world begins to encroach upon my imaginary one and, for a time, the two merge and the fear returns. But with gentle determination, she slowly draws me towards the light.

Towards salvation.

I can feel the substance of her presence, the heat of her body, her scent – coffee, lilacs and Kathryn. They weave their subtle tendrils around me to soothe and dull the sharp edges of anguish and grief. Warm fingers stroke my cheek, press against my forehead, and comb through my hair. She is close, her breath whispering past my ear, her calming words softening to shushing and cooing sounds as her hands caress me.

She is the most important thing in my life and for her – and only her – will I come back.

I drag my eyes open.

It is Kathryn. She’s here in my quarters. She’s come and I close my eyes briefly in relief and gratitude.

I hadn’t heard her enter, or her approach but she’s here with me now and a small surge of hope ignites and lights my way towards her.

I look into her pale, worried face. For an awful moment, I fear she isn't real.  Is she a ghost? Is she already dead, and this an apparition sent to haunt me? But the warmth of her body is my reassurance; I can feel the heat of her as she leans over me and, without thinking, I reach for her and pull her to me.

She eases herself onto my lap and nestles against me, secure in my embrace; tucked tight against my chest, her heart aligning with mine – I can feel the reassuring thud of it against my ribs.

Her arms encircle my shoulders, and her face presses into the crook of my neck.

I whisper her name. “Kathryn.” And she hums a response that I feel as well as hear.

We’ve never been this close, but it feels right – safe and sheltered. I exhale a ragged breath – one that I didn't know I’d been holding – as her body curls into mine. 

We sit like this for a long time, slowly dredging solace from the contact – her breath against my neck, cool on the inhale and hot on the exhale. It brings with it an unrivalled measure of comfort, and I unconsciously find myself breathing in the same steady rhythm. It draws us closer, the two of us, living and breathing in that same small space.

I reach deep within me to find the small core of calm tucked behind my heart before I turn and look into her eyes. They are bright with unshed tears, shimmering with suppressed emotion, but they belong to a Kathryn who is alive and vibrant and real, and that brilliant starburst of truth tosses me, holus bolus, back to the present. _That_ , and the warmth of her hand resting against my cheek, as her other hand strokes over my head and down my neck. 

She cups my face between her palms and stills, as her eyes meet mine.

I inhale deeply, filling my lungs to the brim for what feels like the first time in years. I want to apologize. I _need_ to tell her I am sorry, but she shakes her head and presses her fingers to my lips. I freeze at the intimate gesture as she whispers, “I know, I know.”

Gasping a breath, I am determined to tell her – everything – but I don’t; I can’t. There is too much to say, too much love, too much despair, too much sadness and need all pushing at the fragile walls of my restraint. But, at last, I can see the truth in her eyes. She understands; she has been here – more than once – and the cracks in my heart widen with that realisation. In answer though, I haul her closer, and try to infuse her with what little strength I have left. It is hers for the taking.

We are both too shattered for tears, but having her in my arms is more than I could have ever wished for, more than I ever imagined – a balm to my wounded soul – and I cherish her all the more for knowing this and taking the risk.

I love her deeply and with such conviction that I have no words to adequately express what she means to me, so instead, I tighten my arms around her, and hope that the depth of my devotion will seep from my skin into hers and permeate every cell in her body as it does mine.

In answer, she sinks deeper into my embrace – my living, breathing Kathryn.

Her body fits perfectly against mine; her soft round edges moulding into the sturdy hollows of mine, and I briefly toy with the idea that we are pieces of a three-dimensional puzzle, each of us the answer to the other’s needs, and the entity we become, wholly unique and indestructible. But I don’t want to complicate this moment by bringing the jumbled wreckage of my recent thoughts into her simple act of kindness, so I keep silent. 

Her hands are still moving, however, and her head is once again tucked against my shoulder. Her supple body presses solidly into my embrace, and I concentrate on the myriad of sensations that her movements evoke.

While I am distracted by the touch of her fingertips playing along the back of my neck, and her other hand stroking down the side of my face and over my lips, I almost miss the subtle change, the faint but distinct shift in the tone of her touch. 

Her caresses have moved from soothing to arousing. Her lips brush against my neck, gently plucking at the skin there, her teeth grazing over my pulse point. Her breathing has become deeper, quicker and hitches on the inhale; her skin trembling and shivering at my touch.

It is almost too much, and I kiss the top of her head, my lips lingering and my eyes closing as I indulge my senses. The soft strands of her hair are silken against my lips; the clean citrus smell of her shampoo teases my sense. These things are real, as real as the tragedies and anguish we’ve endured. But they tip a small amount of hope into the void, filling the jagged corners, and smoothing the hard edges of our grief and despair.

Her hands press harder, demanding and sure; an edge of desperation and need apparent in her once soft touches.

I pull her closer, and my mouth searches for hers.

We inhale each other’s breaths, lips skating over skin, cheeks, eyes, and, at last, mouths.

Her hands tug at my jacket and undershirt, clutching handfuls of the fabric, her nails scour my skin and scalp as the need for contact suddenly overtakes all other thoughts.

She kisses me open mouthed until I match her movement for movement, and as our tongues slide together, searching and tasting, our reality spirals down to the sound of our ragged breaths and the swish and scratch of our clothing as we grind against one another. She clambers closer and straddles my lap, the day’s losses and sadness now translated into frantic need and the long denied inevitability of our passion.

I am hard – harder than I’ve been in years – and through the barrier of our uniforms, the heat of her sex presses against me, arousing me even more. I grunt – a caveman noise that prompts her to kiss me harder, deeper. The sharp tips of her nails dig into my shoulders and neck, and the pain feeds my hunger.

I yearn for her.

Wrenching my mouth from hers, I gasp ragged breaths as I splay one hand across her lower back and drag her closer. She begins to rock against me, and I thrust in counterpoint, my other hand gripping the back of her head, holding her forehead against mine as I breathe the words, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” into her open mouth.

There is a desperation in our bodies' brutal movements – jagged, savage thrusts, hands gripping fiercely and mouths greedy for texture and taste. I kiss her – it is not gentle - teeth grinding and tongues entwined. There is heat and wetness, desire full-blown and frantic. I burn for her and can feel the sweat trickle down my spine as my mouth feasts on the exposed skin of her neck, her jaw - my teeth tugging none-too-gently on her ear lobe.

She, in turn, is sucking at the skin of my neck, biting at the tendon between my neck and shoulder. There will be marks left after this encounter but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Sadness and anger, lust and love are fuelling our need, but it is all beyond our control. I don’t think I could stop now if I tried, and the flashing brightness in her eyes tells me that she is also past the point of no return.

Sighs and moans fill the quiet of my quarters and they drive us on – restraint and simple thought hijacked by the intensity of our craving and the bone-deep need for one another.  

She is magnificent. Holding on with a strength belied by her small stature, she heaves and grinds against me. I meet her thrusts, gripping her hard against me. She arches her spine, and I gasp a loud groan into the heated air that surrounds us. Her answer is a fierce cry as she comes, shuddering and jolting against me. Her back bows as I press my face into her breast bone and, with a moaning shiver, I follow her into oblivion - my hips rising to meet her, the wet warmth of my spend soaking through our clothes, hot and heady, filling the room with the scent of sex – and love.

It takes several minutes before our breathing steadies and reality reasserts itself. A part of me wants to stay like this forever. I am tempted to avoid the inevitable acknowledgement of what has transpired between us, but I know we can’t ignore what has happened. We have to talk about it, but until then, I keep my arms around her and caress the back of her neck, my thumb brushing over the jumping pulse under her jaw.

For me, it has been a moment of exquisite intimacy, and I hope with all my wounded heart that Kathryn feels the same, but I am not sure what to expect, what her reaction will be – sorrow, embarrassment, regret?

But, as she’d done so many times over the years, she surprises me.

Her hands begin their gentle stroking again, her head on my shoulder and her lips against my neck. With her breath hot on my skin, she quietly whispers, “I love you. I love you, too.”

The words plunge unfettered directly into my heart and those shattered parts of me - the tangled emotions of guilt and remorse, the anger and fear that has tossed me about on the choppy sea of self-blame - slowly calm and settle. They don’t disappear - they never will - that is too much to ask. Our existence teeters on knife-edge, and will remain there until we cross the light years and find home.

But for now, in this moment, still stricken by grief but with the feeling shared, and thus divided, we've found our way back to one another.

We will stay here until duty calls, curled up in each other's arms, our silence loud in the quiet as we nurture this love.

And we will talk – words long overdue and now inevitable, will fill the hours before we have to don our emotional armour once again and face the realities of our lives out here – but we at last have a firm foundation on which to build whatever life we can from the shattered remains of former selves.   

But for now, and for the future, we have found hard fought-for solace in this rare but precious moment of peace.

 

fin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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